It’s the middle of March and hotter
than hell here in the Valley; he

knows because he’s been to hell
a time or two and it’s enough to

endure such things in the head but
it’s as if his toe nails are begin-

ning to curl from the heat and all
he can think about is global warm-

ing, the end of human life, which,
on occasion, does not seem like

such a terrible thing, especially
now in campaign season, but if he

is going to die, he doesn’t want
to do it wandering in the desert

until every drop of water in his
body has fled for the snow capp-

ed peaks of Flagstaff and he turns
into six-month-old, Navajo fry

bread, which is not exactly the
same thing as manna from heaven.

He would rather his wife tie him
into his touring kayak and launch

him onto the cool, blue waters of
Lake Michigan, a thing to which,

occasionally, she has consented
enthusiastically.